The Homeless Man in the Landfill
by Pereybere
Summary: A new case brings the team closer this Christmas – Brennan and Booth test the waters of a new relationship and Angela and Hodgins rekindle some of the old magic.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **The Homeless Man in the Landfill

**Rating: **Eventually NC-17/MA but for now, it's a T.

**Disclaimer: **These characters do not belong to me. I am just borrowing them to play with them for awhile.

**Summary: **A new case brings the team closer this Christmas – Brennan and Booth test the waters of a new relationship and Angela and Hodgins rekindle some of the old magic.

**Author's Note: **This could be a long one. Maybe something like A Dangerous Aficionado or thereabout. When the NC-17 chapters come up, they will be posted on my site which you can access through my profile. Please review! Thanks!

* * *

_16th Dec_

_Washington, D.C._

_8.30pm_

"Spare change please!" Charlie Norman shook his old tweed flat-cap at bag-laden shoppers, a handful of quarters clinking and rattling as he did. Repositioning himself atop a filthy trench-coat, he tried to meet their gazes and was unsurprised that the middle-class citizens of DC steadfastly refused to look him in the eye. It was easier, he knew, to pretend that the seedy part of society that he belonged to, didn't exist. "In the spirit of the season?" he called to a well dressed woman carrying a briefcase in one hand and several boutique bags in the other. She glanced sideways for a fleeting moment then firmly ahead. _Ignorance is bliss_, Charlie thought, leaning back against the wall.

Above his head an icy sleet fell sideways and the narrow overhang of the building's roof barely kept his hair dry. He glanced into his cap, counting the loose change – most of which he'd put there himself as a psychological rouse. There were buskers along the street with guitars and accordions playing Christmas songs and singing jovially, their smoky gruff voices providing some measure of entertainment for the shoppers.

"Tis the fucking season," Charlie muttered to himself, tipping the quarters into his palm and patting his cap unto his head. Christmas always had been the worst time of the year – even before the unfortunate events that led to him being reduced to a beggar on the streets. "Season of joy my ass." A long time ago, when Charlie had first found himself roaming Washington at night, he had witnessed many old-timers murmuring to themselves and he had been sure they were crazy – that they had resigned themselves to their fate and without purpose in life came insanity. All these years later, he was a mumbling lunatic in the eyes of the newcomers and he had come to realise that the hope of better things had long since diminished but his mental capacity, alas, had not and God help him, he wished it had.

"Bitter cold night tonight."

Long seconds passed before Charlie realised that the statement had been directed at him. Looking at the sidewalk with a frown he saw a pair of shiny brown shoes – expensive leather – attached to a long pair of legs. Lifting his eyes, Charlie caught a glimpse of the man through the sleet and the twinkling street-decorations that caught the water like diamonds, damn near blinding him.

"Bitter cold every night in December," he replied tersely. "and January. February too." The stranger chuckled and his jovial demeanour irked Charlie greatly.

"Listen, I've been in DC for business and I have to leave unexpectedly. I have a room at the Cityside Hotel if you're interested in a dry place to sleep tonight." Once, when he was gung-ho and arrogantly certain that his stint as a homeless man was purely temporary, Charlie would have rebuked any form of charity with a stern 'go fuck yourself, asshole'. Much like his belief that those who talked to themselves were insane, his fiery enthusiasm was a thing of the past. Although he did not thank the stranger, or even speak at all, Charlie accepted the credit-card sized passkey and the clean brown trench-coat offered to him.

The coat fit like a glove and for a moment he experienced a glimpse of déjà vu. For a second it was the man he used to be – the man that people didn't avoid looking at when they passed him in the street. Standing straight, resolutely proud, Charlie read the address on the back of the key-card and left.

* * *

_EnviroClean Landfill_

_Washington, D.C._

_Friday 19th December_

_10.45am_

Seeley Booth could stand the sight of many things but rotting flesh and maggots were not on that list.

Camille Saroyan like his partner Temperance Brennan, appeared to be in her element as she picked through the remains of the body. "Male," she called out over her shoulder. "Fifty five to sixty is my guess."

"The smell is revolting," Booth complained, his nose pressed to his sleeve as he eyed the body. "Can you determine cause of death so I can get the hell out of here?" Cam's gloved fingers tentatively pressed around the hairline and she poked and examined. Something squelched beneath Booth's feet as he moved and his breakfast lurched in his stomach.

"Cause of death cannot be determined right now," Camille announced, getting to her feet. "Although I'd say he's been dead less than a week. It looks like more..."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, highly bacterial environment and all that. Ship it to the Jeffersonian so I can go!"

"Carefully!" Temperance Brennan called shrilly as federal agents advanced towards the corpse. "I know you," she continued as she extended a latex-clad finger towards Agent Pryce. "You're none-too-gentle with the remains." The young man shot her a glare that would have evoked a response had her cell-phone not trilled in her pocket. "Brennan." Booth hurried to defuse the situation, insisting that no, Doctor Brennan was not Agent Pryce's boss and of course she didn't mean offense.

Camille removed her gloves and heaved a sigh. "Poor bastard," she said with a half-hearted gesture to the body. "Days before Christmas, his family must be out of their minds with worry." Booth studied his friend carefully, the lines between her eyebrows when she frowned, how her mouth seemed to tighten with solemn compassion. "My grandfather died on Christmas Eve when I was seven. My mother was devastated and my grandmother had died by February." She lowered her head sadly. "At least Grandpa had his family around him. But this guy..." Booth dropped his hand to her shoulder and squeezed, his touch persuading her to lift her dark eyes to his.

"You okay, Camille?" It wasn't in her nature to be emotional on a case – years as a cop had taught her that. She nodded firmly.

"It's Christmas, Seeley," she answered lifting one corner of her mouth in a lopsided smile. "The most depressing time of the year." Booth waited for her to elaborate and when she didn't he wondered if perhaps he ought to ask, however he remembered well that Camille would always confide in him eventually if there was something she desperately wished to get off her chest. Now, it seemed, was not the time for she had turned away and was packing away her equipment, her head bowed.

"That was Sweets, he has cancelled our appointment for this afternoon," said Brennan, breaking his train of thought. "Family emergency." Booth saw their therapist in his mind's eye and tried to imagine a family scene that fit and somehow, he could not. "I never imagined Sweets had a family," Brennan told him, as though reading his mind. "Anyway, he's rescheduled for Monday."

Truth be told, Booth didn't think they needed therapy but it was oddly comforting to know that Sweets was around to talk to. Though everyone pretended his psychological probing was infuriating and mostly inaccurate, Booth secretly had faith that Lance Sweets incessant quest for the team to question themselves and their motives was a good thing. Still, appearances had to be kept and he grinned. "Great, now lets get all this stuff to the lab so you and your people can tell me who this guy is and how he died. In the mean time, I'll be at the diner eating pie!"

* * *

_Jeffersonian Institute,_

_Washington, D.C._

_3.15pm_

"That's all he had?" Angela asked as Camille lined up the items from the victim's pockets. "Robbery, maybe?" Three dollars in change, a comb, a mint-wrapper and a folded piece of paper had been removed from the dirty khaki pants the man had been wearing.

"I had thought that too, until I found this." Camille held up a red plastic wristband, the style of which had been made popular through the MAKEPOVERTYHISTORY campaigns. Now every charity had their own version in every colour under the rainbow. "It's for a homeless shelter here in DC. Sandra's Community Shelter, with an address printed on the inside. This isn't designed to make a statement."

"It's so the homeless know where to find somewhere to sleep..." Angela said. "Was he murdered? Who would murder a homeless man?" It certainly wouldn't be for money, she knew.

"I don't know. His face was badly decomposed so the bones have been stripped and when Dr Brennan has finished with the skull, I'd like you to do a facial reconstruction. Maybe if we have a face, someone at the shelter will know who he is." Angela nodded her consent and left.

Camille had thought about this man's family earlier – how they would be receiving such dreadful news so close to Christmas. Now she knew that no one wondered where he was, no one cared and that was immeasurably worse.

Tucking her hair behind her ear, Camille perched on the edge of a stool and reflected upon the past few Christmases. Most years she would visit her family, eat too much food and drink more mulled wine than what any person should consume in a period of a week. Four years ago, she had been certain that traditions would be inevitably changing with her marriage to Chris Adams. Until he had dumped her two days before Christmas.

"The victim died of a gunshot wound to the back of the head." Brennan stepped unto the platform, pulling Camille from her depressing reverie. "The bullet penetrated here," she went on, pressing her fingertips to the cushiony spot at the top of her neck, "and went into his brain. He died instantly. Whoever killed this man did not want him to suffer, but he certainly intended him to die."

"He was a homeless man," Camille told Brennan, reiterating what she knew about the red wristband. "Angela's going to get working on a reconstruction." Brennan examined the address that was carved into the plastic strip. "Why would someone murder a homeless man? I can't fathom a realistic motive," Cam said. "It wasn't money, it's unlikely to be jealousy nor is it likely that our victim was caught in bed with another man's wife..." Brennan placed the wristband on the steel table next to the victim's other belongings.

"I'm not a cop," she said at last. "But there is always a motive."

* * *

Thanks for reading. Don't forget to drop me a review to make my day. I will update this story shortly with romance and smut!


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **The Homeless Man in the Landfill

**Rating: **T for now, MA eventually.

**Disclaimer: **Not mine, unfortunately.

**Author's Note: **Thank you for all the kind comments and encouragement. I am glad you are enjoying the story so far. It seems quite appropriate, even that Christmas is so close. If only I had the same enthusiasm for doing my shopping! The thought of those queues makes me shiver!

* * *

_Jeffersonian Institute_

_Friday 19th December_

_6.35pm_

Angela Montenegro had been told many times that she had a kind heart. In college she had often been keen to preserve emotions and ensure people did not get hurt. Although she had been popular in social circles she had mingled with the quiet intellects and for that reason it had become common knowledge that Angie was the people person.

It occurred to her, as she carefully sketched the lines around the victim's eyes, that not everyone would have taken such time and consideration on this particular man. Drawing his hair as though it were neatly combed and giving his serious eyes a twinkle of happiness, she thought it was the least he deserved, considering.

Maybe he would have loathed her pity, but pity him she did. Even inside her heated office in the state-of-the-art laboratory, Angela wore a heavy woollen sweater to stave off the cold. To imagine sleeping in a doorway in snowy conditions made her bones feel rigid. Their current John Doe might have been nothing more than a skull sitting atop her desk, and Brennan might have warned her against letting her emotions get the best of her, but Angela felt a gnawing sadness at the thought of such an existence.

Brennan had verified that Cam had been accurate in her age estimation and Angela had sketched the man as though he were around fifty-five. She had added world-weary lines to the corners of his eyes although she imagined he would have looked much older in reality.

"Nice work."

Jack peered over her shoulder at the sketch, momentarily startling her. "You always draw them with such dignity." Angela placed her pencil on the desk, turning in her chair to face him.

"Thank you," she replied searching his blue eyes with her own. There wasn't often a valid professional reason for Jack to be in her office and Angela knew that part of him – the part that had never really gotten over their breakup – liked to seek solace in the familiarity of her space. It was a vivid indicator that he was finding a particular piece of his work difficult.

"How's Roxie?" he asked as he always did.

"Great," she lied, desperately wishing that she could tell him that she hadn't seen her girlfriend in four days. "Did you find anything interesting the... dirty stuff?" Jack smirked, rolling his eyes towards the ceiling.

"If by 'dirty stuff' you mean those videos we made then the answer is 'oh yes baby', but if you mean in the particulates from the homeless guy, nope, not yet." Angela swatted him, taking her drawing from the table and standing.

"You promised you would destroy those videos." He gave a hapless shrug, crossing his arms over his chest as he watched her slip her pencils back into their proper slots as per her carefully organised colour co-ordination. "I didn't expect that you would," she added shooting him a glare of faux annoyance over her shoulder.

"Not a chance," he agreed. "Are you sure everything is okay, Ange? You don't seem... I dunno... like yourself." Her back stiffened, he noticed with certainty. Exactly as it would of as she approached a particularly mind-blowing orgasm and Jack knew at once that his former lover was hiding something. She loosened, turning to face him with her sketch book in hand and a wide, overly jolly smile stretched across her lovely, usually so open and unguarded features.

"I was thinking about the victim before you came in," she told him truthfully, telling herself that a half truth was only half a lie. Besides, a lie by omission wasn't valid. "Homeless at Christmas? It's tragic."

"Homeless any time of the year, is tragic, Angela. I used to volunteer at a soup kitchen when I was a kid and you know something? You might have everything today, but every single one of us could end up with nothing tomorrow." It was a sobering thought that Angela carried with her as she left her office and made her way through the lab to where Brennan, Cam and Clark stood.

She wasn't sure whether it was the season or whether it were the remains of the homeless man lying on the steel examination table, but a distinctly sombre disposition had settled over her colleagues and Angela's mood darkened further as she placed the victim's skull at the head of the table and turned her sketch towards them.

Moments later Booth stepped unto the platform and business resumed as usual. As discussion revolved around John Doe, Angela wondered about Roxie and where she would be spending Christmas. Their fight four days ago had been catastrophic for their relationship and Roxie had stormed from Angela's apartment, swearing never to return. So far, she had not. Though she ought to have felt miserable, mourning the loss of her second relationship in a year, Angela felt relief and that relief was what really brought misery.

Was she incapable of settling down into a normal, no-fuss relation? Or would she be forever searching for something more, something off the wall?

"_You'll never commit to me because you're always devoting some part of your mind to that guy you were going to marry."_

Roxie's words had startled Angela at first and then worried her when she had been left alone to contemplate the implications of them. If Roxie was right, then Angela was far from over Jack Hodgins and maybe breaking up with him had been a giant mistake.

"Angela, we need a copy of the sketch," Booth told her and as if on auto-pilot she nodded and left. Her personal life would need to be shelved for now, at least until the team had solved the mystery of the homeless man. Then, she promised herself, she would start a new year off on the right foot – and get her damn life in order.

* * *

_Sandra's Community Shelter_

_Friday 19th December_

_Washington, D.C._

_8.15pm_

Sandra Collins was slender red-headed woman of about forty-five. The shelter that she owned was really an old mill that had been converted into ten bed dormitories.

"Altogether," she said making a pot of tea, "we have some five hundred beds. We never fill to capacity because so many of the homeless folk feel like failures when they relent and accept charity. On a good night, we'll make three hundred." She folded her arms across her chest, blowing a tendril of hair from her eyes. "It's never a good sign when the FBI turn up." Booth shook his head.

"No, it rarely is Ms Collins." The kitchen decor was tired, but clean. The surfaces had been wiped down and the air smelt of lemony disinfectant. Sandra's hand trembled as she poured tea into the cups she had lined up. "We've found a man that we believe may have used this shelter. He had one of these." Producing the wristband, Booth placed the evidence bag on the counter and Sandra extended her hand and touched the plastic bag.

"I had them made so that our residents, if you can call them that, would always know they had somewhere to come home to. My husband, Jacob, was so dedicated to our cause."

"Was?" Booth probed gently and Sandra Collins pushed the wristband away, turning back to the tea.

"Jacob died four years ago. Cancer." Brennan had often wondered what made people spend their energies on charity when, aside from a sense of moral satisfaction there was no benefit. She supposed for many people that was enough to procure their dedication. Perhaps one day, if time allowed, she would volunteer at a shelter like this.

"Do you know this man?" Booth pressed on, passing the woman Angela's sketch of the victim. Her green eyes rounded in surprise, studying the image as though she expected it to change in some fundamental way as to not be who she suspected it to be. With the tea forgotten, a shaky sob rose in Sandra's throat and she turned away from the sketch to face the window that, in daylight, looked out unto the barren scrap yard beyond the converted mill but tonight, merely reflected her own horror. "Who is he, Ms Collins?" Booth could always alternate the pitch and tone of his voice, just perfectly, so as to convey sympathy and urgency. Brennan admired the skill with which he garnered information from the people they interviewed.

"Charlie Norman," Sandra whispered. "It looks just like Charlie Norman."

"Who is Charlie Norman?" Brennan asked, speaking for the first time. Sandra turned to look at her, as though having just realised she were there.

"Who is any homeless person? They're nobody. He was the invisible man, hiding in plain sight." Booth took the evidence bag and the sketch, tucking them both into his pocket. "Charlie stayed here maybe twice a fortnight. I don't know where he stayed the rest of the time – maybe he had another shelter that he visited. He was a nice man, slightly more bitter about life than most of the others, but he was nice all the same." She grasped a locket around her neck, pulling the pendant back and forth on the fine golden chain as she reflected. "Jacob was fond of Charlie – sometimes they would play cards together because Charlie was a wicked poker player." Her brows knitted and she turned her eyes to Booth. "Was he murdered?" she asked.

"Yes, he was. Can you tell us anything about how Charlie became homeless? Had he been on the streets for long?" Sandra released her pendant, dropping her arms by her side, she gave a weighted sigh.

"I guess he'd been on the streets ten maybe twelve years. He never told us much about himself, except that he had once owned a business and when it went down the drain, so did his home and his cars. He was left with nothing." She shook head. "He kept a locker here, perhaps some of his belongings might be inside. As I'm sure you can imagine, he didn't have much but I can open it for you, if you like?" Booth nodded.

"Please."

Sandra excused herself and Brennan turned to him finding that her heart was heavy. "It's sad to think that someone's life can be wiped out so easily. Do you think Charlie Norman's past is the reason why he ended up dead?" Booth lifted his shoulder in a semi-shrug.

"His past is over a decade ago. For the past ten years at least he was a homeless man begging on the street, Bones. I can't imagine why anyone would think he deserved to be punished more than that." And if they did, he added silently, Charlie Norman must have done something very bad. His partner's blue eyes were distant and he knew that she was struggling to justify or fathom the murder as she so often did. He would take her to dinner tonight, he decided. Somewhere nice where she could relax and put the case to the back of her mind, even for a few hours.

"Sorry for keeping you," Sandra Collins said stepping into the kitchen, a dark green satchel in her arms. "This is everything that Charlie kept here, like I said, he might have used other shelters in the city." Booth accepted the bag, peering inside. A bundle of musty clothes had been piled atop a handful of worn paperbacks. "I'm afraid you won't find anything of interest." Brennan took the books in her hands – classics with torn spines and ragged covers. Flicking the pages with her thumb, a dusty scent rose to her nose and she suppressed a sneeze.

_A Christmas Carol_ fell from her hands and landed on the floor with a decisive thud.

Sandra knelt to retrieve the book. "Who could take life from a man who already had nothing?" she asked aloud, not expecting an answer. She returned the book to Brennan's hand and when she did, Temperance caught sight of the faded blue inscription on the inside.

_To my Charlie,_

_Now you can stop admiring it,_

_With love, Martha_

Brennan tilted the book towards Booth and he frowned. "Who is Martha?" he asked Sandra and she shrugged.

"I have no idea. His wife, maybe?"

"Thank you for your help, Ms Collins. Merry Christmas."

Booth pressed his hand to Brennan's back, leading her through the door. Outside a light snow had begun to fall, dusting the grounds in a powdery shimmer. The security lights that spread a white glow across the courtyard leant an almost magical feel to the weather. Brennan buttoned her coat, lifting her eyes to the sky. Icy flakes landed upon her cheeks and yet she couldn't summon the lightness that she ought to have felt. Their victim weighed heavily on her mind – his misfortune and the injustice of his death.

"Chinese or Thai?" Booth asked, his footfalls crunching as the snow compressed under the soles of his shoes. She met his gaze, grateful for his company when she felt so miserable inside.

"Pizza?" she suggested. "Maybe we can eat it in?"

"Eat in? I thought we said we'd only do this at the weekend, Bones." Their relationship was so new, she sometimes felt like a schoolgirl harbouring an illicit crush. Four weeks wasn't a long time and though he stayed over at her apartment on Saturday nights, they had not yet crossed the line into the territory of physical intimacy.

"It's almost the weekend," she reasoned at last. "Besides, I think I have Christmas Blues." Booth unlocked his SUV, shaking his head.

"You and everyone else, it seems. Fine, pizza it is."

* * *

Thanks for the reviews you give me for the first chapter. I hope you enjoy the second one, and don't mind that I am delving into everyone's lives in this story. I feel everyone deserves their piece.

Let me know what you think! :)


	3. Chapter 3

**Title: **The Homeless Man in the Landfill

**Disclaimer: **Still not mine. Only playing, no infringement.

**Rating: **MA eventually which you can read on my website. For it will be M rated.

**Author's Note: **Thanks for the great response so far! I apologise to Renee who feels this story is dragging and boring – agreed it's a step away from the smutty one-shots that I would usually write and there will be more of those, too. I appreciate you taking the time to tell me what you thought. In the mean time, I hope those of you who have liked it so far will continue to do so. :)

* * *

_Friday 19th December_

_Washington, D.C._

_10.40pm_

"I'm not good at this kind of thing," Temperance complained, slipping the shiny red bauble unto the tree. "It looks lopsided." The fir tree's point reached an inch or so above Booth's head and seemed to tilt ever-so-slightly to the left. Brennan planted her hands on her hips and sighed. "There's too much weight on that side, Booth. Who taught you to decorate a tree, anyway?"

Booth, strands of silver tinsel wrapped around his shoulders like a sparkly feather boa threw her an indifferent glare. "Where I come from, Bones, the point of a tree is not to have a perfect show-room ornament like you'd see in a catalogue." He wiggled the end of the tinsel at her face, touching her nose. She had started to get used to the impromptu displays of affection that he would sometimes extend to her. Taking another bauble in her hand, she caught a glimpse of herself in the reflective plastic and she was surprised to see that she was smiling easily.

"What is the point then?" she asked.

"It's a family thing, Bones. An activity that brings everyone together and unites, even if only for a little while." Booth draped the tinsel around the tree, careful not to obstruct the twinkling glow of the dainty fairy-lights that Brennan had painstakingly twisted around the branches. "It was the only time my family would be fully united, you know." Brennan threaded golden string unto the baubles, resting on the edge of an armchair. Her fingers stilled and she wondered whether to urge further details from him. "I always wanted 'tree days' to last forever. My dad is a big guy, as broad as he is tall... cumbersome and not always well co-ordinated. My mother was a dancer in her younger years and she used to joke that my dad would never have made a dancer, but man, when he decorated the Christmas tree he would be so careful not to break the ornaments. We had ceramic ornaments, you see..." He turned a cradle decoration over, placing it on an empty branch.

"Booth..." Brennan touched his arm, her skin hot enough to seer away the memories of his childhood – good and bad. He blinked away the past and visibly straightened before her. "I can understand why you would miss that aspect of your life. I never imagined I would enjoy decorating a Christmas tree as much as I am." She realised that Booth would believe she had missed his point entirely – which was exactly what she wanted him to think, for when Seeley Booth felt he was wearing his heart on his sleeve or that someone was 'getting' his emotions, he would inevitably close up, again. Brennan found that she didn't want him to and that she was surprised by her psychological manipulation.

"Yeah..." he replied slowly. "Okay! Decision time... angel or star?" Brennan eyed the modernised golden star, carefully shaped as to appear abstract and the porcelain-faced angel, with her silken white dress, ringed halo and shiny blonde ringlets.

"Well... they're _both_ religious symbols..." Booth dropped his arms in resignation.

"It's for Christmas, Bones. That's _Christ-_mas." Temperance took the angel from his right hand and smoothed her dress down before placing her atop the tree. "That was my choice too," Booth beamed. He deposited the star back into the box and drew his arms around her. "Thanks for inviting me over," he murmured in her ear, his lips brushing across her skin. "It's nice to share the season with someone special." Brennan pressed her cheek to his shoulder, the warmth and sincerity of his words washing over her.

"Is that what I am? Someone special?" He leaned back.

"What? Of course you are, Temperance. You should know me better than that, right? I wouldn't have entered into this, if it weren't something real." Her smile was watery and she nodded.

"Right." She agreed.

"Right... good. Yes. Beer?" He released her and she watched him disappear into her kitchen, wondering how people as socially fluent as Booth or Angela would describe 'something real' to a girl like her.

* * *

_Friday 19th December_

_Middlefield, Connecticut_

_11.55pm_

Lance Sweets had begun to doze in the uncomfortable plastic-covered armchair when a noise from the hospital bed roused him immediately. Emotional fatigue aside, Lance straightened and settled his gaze on the small frame that shifted beneath the pale green blankets. "Lucy?" he whispered, leaning forward.

His elder sister did not focus on him at first, her dark green eyes levelled on something beyond his head. "Luce?" He shuddered when she finally looked at him – a cold glare of intense anger, disappointment and dare he admit it, hatred.

"Where's mom and dad?" she asked gruffly, her throat dry.

"They went home to rest." Allie and Owen Sweets had been shattered when he had arrived in Middlefield that morning. His mother, at fifty-four had looked at least a decade older and her eyes had been haunted by the image of her only daughter. "Luce-"

"Don't start the bullshit, Lance." Lucy snapped at once. "How many more times are you going to sweep back into town trying to play the hero?" She was twenty-six but her body was frail and when she tried to elevate herself, Lucy's arms buckled and she fell against the mattress, cursing in frustration. Lance stood, advancing towards her despite her venomous tone. "Get off me!" she snapped as he persisted anyway.

"Do you need something to drink?" he asked pouring her a glass of lukewarm water from a plastic jug on the bedside cabinet. When she did not accept it, Lance left it beside her and retreated to the armchair again. "Are you going to be bitter every time I come to visit?" he asked, adapting his patient psychologist tone. His sister had long since been immune to it and merely stared. "I guess you can't give mom and dad a single happy Christmas, can you Lucy? Everything in life has to be entirely about you, otherwise you make these selfish plays for attention." Lance gestured to the thick gauze bandages that had been wrapped around her wrists – wrists that were already so scarred and battered from the many previous attempts Lucy had made upon her own life.

"Go to hell, Lance. Not everyone can be a golden child, you know." Lance glanced down at himself – straight-laced attire despite being only just a kid in the eyes of most. His navy blue tie had been loosened by around lunch-time but otherwise, he represented professionalism perfectly. Lance Jeremy Robert Sweets PhD. That was what his father liked to call him after a bourbon or two.

Neither of his parents had ever questioned why their brilliant young son had been so hell bent on pursuing a career in therapy. It had never occurred to either of them at their daughter, who had harboured suicidal tendencies since she was sixteen, had filled him with an anxiety and a need to cure her. Someone had to find the root of his sister's problems and if only he could do it, he would.

"You never tried to be a golden child, Lucy. For the past ten years you've done nothing with your life except mope around in self-pity." She had resented him since those early days too, when he aced every subject he tried while she stuck behind, struggling with problems that most other people had to struggle through on a daily basis.

Until he joined the FBI and met people with the severe issues, Lance had always felt some measure of sympathy for Lucy. Now, after ten years of feeling that same sympathy and receiving only icy retorts in response, Lance felt only that his sister was selfish and he hated himself for it.

"Why don't you go back to DC and play Boy Genius somewhere else. You can't get into my head, Lance. I don't _want_ you in my fucking head!" She tapped her forehead hard, her green eyes so bright with fury they were almost electric. "You can tell mom and dad to get lost, too."

Lance closed his eyes, surprised at the emotion that rose in his chest. Getting to his feet he strode to the door and, entirely breaking his own character he glanced over his shoulder at his sister and said, "Merry fucking Christmas, Luce."

* * *

There will be B and B smut in the next chapter as well as more about Charlie and the other characters. I hope you liked this insight into Lance and why I thought he could have picked his chosen career. Please review and let me know!


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